A Musical Equation
by red-lipstick-black-coffee
Summary: "On a normal day, you know, I would have never gone into that cafe at all." I wait for him to ask what made today different. He never does. Perhaps he knows already. A little AU SpUK project. Multi-chapter, and the rating may change to M.
1. Prologue

The more I think on it, the more likely I am to admit that this is probably all my fault. I could have chosen to continue with my walk, ignore all the traffic surrounding that little café, not satiate my curiosity towards the crowd and the soft lilt of an acoustic guitar floating from its direction; then we would have never met. If I had just kept walking, perhaps I could have spared myself from this whole… mess.

As amused as I am to be in it, of course. And I _am_ amused, because these are the sorts of things that happen to blushing, doe-eyed babes in moves, with long lashes and pink lips, and perfect, flowing hair. Not to me, as I am, to every account, the very antithesis of that description (despite a certain Spaniard's attempt to convince me otherwise, the scoundrel). But I digress. The situation may be amusing, in a sort of "I simply cannot believe that I am the one this is happening to" sense, but given the choice, I think I would have rather avoided it.

Because there's no way all this can last and be real, right?

Wait. Were those his footsteps, or—

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**AN: I'm working on this little SpUK project. It was brainstormed with a friend of mine, but she's having me be the one to put it in action (with which I am perfectly fine).**

**Yes, I know this is just a silly little prologue. Chapter 1, which will be much longer, ought to be up by tomorrow.**

**I do think that this story will eventually need to have an "M" rating tacked on to it, but not for a little while. **

**And don't worry, there won't be an author's note like this at the end of every chapter.**


	2. Chapter 1

I seem to have chosen a terrible day to go out for a stroll. I can't fathom why there are so many people mulling about, so many cars parked along the street. Usually this part of town goes more or less ignored by the rest of the world, which is why I enjoy it so much myself. But it seems that something interesting enough to draw the attention of more than just a man on his mid-morning stroll has finally happened here, so there goes my peace and quiet.

They all seem to have flocked to the café on the corner of the street. From across the way, I can make out the vague sound of a guitar, and perhaps some singing. This café is known for hosting live music, but the kinds musicians that usually play there never seem to garner this much attention.

I suppose I should find out what's happened to screw up my morning (and get a scone, while I'm in there). There's a crowd outside the door, but somehow I manage to fumble my way through it, grumbling as I squeeze and shove my way through the masses. Much to my dismay, however, instead of emerging victorious from a wave of awestruck bystanders, I take in the same sight that they have seen, drown, and become a part of them.

The musician is sitting on a stool on the small stage in one of the corners of the café. The lighting has been dimmed in the rest of the establishment, but the lights above him still shine brightly, and all eyes are on him.

His fingers are tan and calloused; he has the strong, worn looking hands of a farmer. They caress the strings of his instrument tenderly, as though his fingertips are exploring the body of a lover. In response to his administrations, the guitar moans a wonderful tune, speaking in so elegant and fine a language that all who hear wish that it would become their own.

His voice is heavily accented, smooth and thick, and every word feels like a warm embrace, holding you tightly and making you feel perfectly safe and at ease. I look upon his lips and become transfixed, the way they move while he sings simply mesmerizing. They are full and pink, and they look so soft, and every so often he presses them together tightly, letting out a hum that sends shivers down my spine. This action is so hypnotizing to me that I almost forget entirely to look up at his eyes. Almost. Eventually I am able to tear my attention away from his mouth, and the sight that meets me when I glace up would have stopped my heart, was that a logical result of such a thing.

They're bright green, his eyes, and despite knowing better I want to say that they are actually radiating light. I've never seen this much green in one place before in my entire life, they're such a bright, startling colour… but more than that, they seem to be looking right at me.

No. That's not possible. That is so painfully cliché… And yet, I can't manage to tear my own eyes away from his. Are we making eye contact, or is this imagined? I'm certainly not blushing, but suddenly my face feels so warm.

The song ends, and I slip back into reality long enough to realize that I'm standing right in the middle of the doorway. Me and a cluster of others, of course, but I have sense enough to relocate somewhere more practical. I make my way towards the back wall of the café, and the man (goodness, I don't even have any idea what his name is yet. Way to get ahead of yourself, Arthur) starts to play another song.

I can't pinpoint what it is about him. He's clearly very talented, both at playing guitar and singing, but there are many very talented people in the world, and certainly not all of them are able to coax a crowd into the state he has all of us in. No, not only is he talented, but he's also got one hell of a presence. Perhaps it's in the expressions he makes as he sings, the way his eyes emote almost as much as his voice does, how his lips move to form words in more elegant a way than I have ever seen before. Every action is so practiced, polished, perfect, but it's also beautifully raw. Everything about him is simply entrancing.

And he's gorgeous. His fingers and his lips and his eyes, and all the rest of him. He's got this mess of incredibly silky looking brown kinks and curls, tumbling down from the top of his head in such a perfect disarray that I can't help but wonder if he needs to spend an absurd amount of time trying to get his hair to look just the right kind of mussed. His skin is this deep, flawless caramel colour, his jaw is sharp and defined, and his arms look lean but strong. In a word, he is breathtaking, but that does not even begin to describe him. And I still don't know his name.

As though he has read my mind, he finishes the song, and smiles out at all of us. A small, irrational part of me wants to pretend that his smile is for me alone. "I suppose I should be wrapping it up," he coos into the mic, and none of us want him to go. "If you would, allow me one more song, in my native language." We're all completely spellbound, and would allow him almost anything (some of us more than others).

He starts to play the intro, and it gives me the same feeling as taking the first sip of a warm beverage on a cold day. He continues to speak as he plays. "Once again, and for those of you who joined me later," and I swear, he looking at me again, "my name is Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. It has been pleasure sharing my talents with all of you beautiful English people." The crowd chuckles at this, but I remain frozen, almost certain that this time he is staring straight at me.

Antonio (now that I finally know his name) begins to sing again, and I can't be certain what he's saying, but it's beautiful, and it sounds like love and longing and missed opportunities. His voice is wistful and soothing, and I can't help but close my eyes and simply let myself soak in the sweetness of his music. That is, until I remember that he's _staring at me_. I can't imagine why, unless I have something on my face or I accidentally put all my clothes on backwards, or perhaps I'm bleeding. Of all the people packed into the café, it seems absurd that I should be the one he's got his eyes on.

All too soon, the song is over. He closes his eyes as he croons out the final note, and I shut mine as well. When we open them again, the lights are no longer dimmed, and everyone is clapping. I am surprised to find that I am clapping with them, though I certainly don't remember deciding to do so. He stands from the stool and smiles out happily at all of us, leaning down and purring into the mic, "Thank you again."

It seems that the people in the café seem to all slowly come to the realization that none of them are moving, because it takes a moment for everyone to begin to stir again. But once everyone has gathered their bearings, the café begins to buzz with noise and movement. Some people rush out, perhaps because they have places to be, or they don't like crowds, or any other reason one can conjure up. Others mull about, hesitant to leave for perhaps the same immeasurable number of reasons. There's a gaggle of young women that has congregated right in front of the stage, and they're trying to get Antonio's attention. The Spaniard himself (I assume he's Spanish, he sounds Spanish, and he said the last song was in his native language, and that was most certainly Spanish) is busy putting away his guitar and chatting with a man who I assume works at the café, seeing as he's wearing the same pale pink polo shirt and bright blue name tag as all the other employees. Eventually, Antonio does turn to speak with the girls, smiling sweetly at them while they practically ambush the poor man, hugging him and tugging on his arms and kissing his cheeks. They're handing him slips of paper or sliding them into his pockets—and oh, look, one of them just squeezed his arse. He doesn't seem to mind the attention though, continuing to smile even after they all disperse.

I don't know what I'm still doing here. I do know that he was staring at me, and I think that maybe a part of me would like to speak to him, but the idea just seems so ridiculous to me that the mere fact that it spawned from my own brain makes me want to question my sanity. I decide to give myself some time to debate over it, as a decision made in a hurry can often be the wrong one, and I end up lurking about until the café is almost empty, staring awkwardly at the ground and trying not to draw too much attention to myself. It takes about half an hour for the café to drain itself of people, and now that the crowd has dispersed and the din has died down, I allow myself to glance back over Antonio's way. His back is turned to me again, and it he seems to be fiddling with his guitar case or something inside it.

I look him over again now that the building is fully illuminated, and am somewhat disheartened to find that he's still just as beautiful, if not even more so. Surely someone like him couldn't have been staring at me; I must have simply imagined it. If I approach him now, I'll surely come off mad. With that conclusion, I turn on my heal and walk towards the door.

"Don't go."

I freeze mid-step. Was that Antonio? Did I hear him correctly? Perhaps he was talking to someone else, there's still a person or two that has lingered, a couple that are presently leaving as well. Deciding to take the risk, I say, without turning around to look at him, "Me?"

"Scruffy blonde hair, beautiful eyes, adorable smile, was that your lovely voice I just heard? If so, then yes, you."

I feel my breath catch and my palms clam up a bit. He's speaking without looking at me, and for some reason I am certain that he's doing so for my benefit, because I certainly know that had he been looking straight at me, this would be an unpleasant encounter indeed, at least on my part. This is because at the moment I'm blushing bright red. The way he had just described me… he said it in such an earnest, almost innocent tone, as though he was not attempting to flirt with me, but merely stating the facts, and I begin to wonder if perhaps he thinks that is exactly what he is doing.

"You've been waiting here for a while. It seems as though you wish to talk to me. Coincidentally, I would like to talk to you as well. I could be wrong, though, and if I am, then by all means, leave. And if you have somewhere to go, then I would not want to keep you. But if you are going to leave, then at least write your number on a napkin for me."

I should just leave now. I wouldn't want him to think that I'm some easily won over, blushing, swooning admirer, ready to leap at any chance to be near him. Because that is most definitely the opposite of what I am, and I wouldn't want to let him form any embarrassing misconceptions about me. I don't know what he wants, perhaps his intentions are undesirable. And even if his aims are good and innocent, maybe if I play hard to get, it will make me seem more desirable, and—

"Oh good, you stayed."

His voice is soft and pleased, but more pressing than that, it is _right beside my ear_. I nearly leap out of my skin. He's got his hands on my shoulders, and good God, does this man have any concept of personal space at all? He gives my shoulders a quick squeeze and walks in front of me, spinning around all too theatrically and practically beaming at me. Clapping his hands together in excitement, he asks, "Did you enjoy the show?"

I almost want to roll my eyes at him and shoot him a sarcastic retort. Of course I enjoyed the show, everyone enjoyed the show. But he's looking at me with such hopeful, eager eyes… I smile and nod at him. "Most certainly. You're very talented, Antonio."

His entire face lights up even more, a beautiful sight that I would have never imagined possible. "Gracias, gracias, I am glad to hear it. Ah.. I don't believe I know _your_ name yet, do I?"

I shake my head, and hold out a hand to him. "Arthur Kirkland. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Antonio grips my hand in his and gives it a firm shake. His hands are incredibly warm, and it feels nice, like that first pleasant day after a long winter and a cold spring, where you know that this is it, the sunshine is finally here, the coming days after this are going to be warm as well. I almost don't want to let go, but I draw my hand back and give him a small, awkward smile.

He nods enthusiastically and slides both of his hands into his pockets, leaning forward on the balls of his feet and tilting his head ever so slightly to the side. I take a moment to appreciate once more how polished and practiced each spontaneous gesture and action is. "The pleasure is all mine, Arthur," he gushes. I like the way he says my name, his thick, warm accent taking the simple word and wrapping it in sheets of satin, inviting me to curl up and lie with him.

We're wasting time with formalities, though. I know it, and he does too. I decide to be blunt. "You were staring at me. A bit when I came in and all through that last song."

His expressive face falls momentarily, eyes narrowing and boring into me in a mixture of inquisition and... fear? The look is gone as quickly as it came, so I cannot be certain if I had merely imagined the fear in his eyes or not. He nods, smiling softly, almost slyly, at me. "You were staring right back."

"Everyone was." I feel the need to clear that up, if only because it's the truth. Antonio shrugs his shoulders and nods. He looks at me for a while, and then it appears that something has dawned on him. He bites his lip and glances away, and I see that same… apprehension—yes, that's it—on his face as before.

After a moment, he turns his eyes back to me, and asks, "Did you mind my staring?"

It doesn't take me long to think about this. "Yes," I say, and see his face dim immediately, "however as a general rule, I don't like to be stared at by anyone. It makes me feel anxious, like they're waiting for me to do something important. I suppose that… as far as being stared at goes… I minded your staring far less than I have minded the staring of others."

He tilts his head and shoots me a peculiar grin. "Well I suppose that is the most I can ask for," he replies, in this strange, affectionate, sing-songy way. It's unnerving and alluring all at the same time, and I cannot help myself but smile back.

With that, his own smile widens even further, returning to how it had been right after the show. He looks positively elated, and I wonder what I've done to bring on such an emotion. Raising an eyebrow at him, I voice something that has been on my mind since we began to speak, perhaps even since I entered the café. "You're rather perplexing. I think I should like to learn more about you, Antonio."

Simply nodding, he responds, "Very good. You will come to coffee with me then, no?"

I like the way he phrases this, and chuckle. "We're already in a café, you know." I gesture at the tables and the counter with my hands, and while doing so vaguely remember a desire to purchase a scone. "Also, I don't like coffe."

"Get tea," he responds, as if it is the most logical and obvious answer in the world, and honestly, I cannot think up a single way to argue with that. He then shakes his head, his hair dancing back and forth along his forehead. "But, we'll go somewhere else. I have been in here since they opened, doing set up and what not. I could not possibly burden them with my presence any longer. That, and I know a place where the coffee is a little bit better. I'm sure the tea is good too. Come."

With that, he turns around and begins to walk, motioning with his hands that I should follow him. For a very brief moment, I hesitate, and contemplate exactly what I might be getting myself into by going for coffee—or, tea, I suppose—with this strange man that I have hardly spoken to. Perhaps maybe I should decline his offer, give him my phone number, and wait to think it over, maybe have a more proper conversation with him first. I just hate rushing into things.

He turns and looks at me, and his raised eyebrow and beaming smile tells me that this could be anything between just coffee and the rest of my life. I smile back and follow him out the door.

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**AN: I know I said their wouldn't be an Author's note at the end of everything, so hopefully this is the last one.**

**I never really expected this chapter to get so long, and the next one might be much shorter, I apologize if it is. **

**But I'll try to make my updates as consistent as possible. I hope you enjoyed this! **


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